


Whatever I Want

by beccastanz



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bisexual Rey (Star Wars), Bratty Rey, Breathplay, Condoms, Crying During Sex, Cunnilingus, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Dominant Ben Solo, Dominant Kylo Ren, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Fingering, Fingers in Mouth, Forced Orgasm, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Manipulative Ben Solo, Multiple Orgasms, Naked Female Clothed Male, No Pregnancy, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Pussy Spanking, Restraints, Rey is a bit of a criminal, Rey is into it but Ben doesn’t ask and he could have her arrested for breaking and entering, Spanking, Squirting, Submissive Rey (Star Wars), THE SONG OF MY PEOPLE, Under-negotiated Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, bratty Rey rights campaign, except not really because he just presses the sides of her neck like a responsible boi, petition to just use squirting cuz not all females have vaginas anyways back to tagging, pillow humping, prase/humiliation/degradation is the holy trinity no I will not be taking questions at this time, self degradation, so the consent is dubious at best, the messiest meet cute of all time, three finger fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26630464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beccastanz/pseuds/beccastanz
Summary: His touch is teasing, but not tentative. It’s clear this is not a man who asks for things. This is a man whotakes.————Part of the House Dadam A-Z Kink Collection.H is for Humiliation...Also a late addition to the 2019 Kinktober Collection: Squirting
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 134
Kudos: 506
Collections: House Dadam A-Z Kink Collection, Pepsi and Pals' Hardcore Kinktober Challenge





	Whatever I Want

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! I have been teasing this on Twitter since the beginning of August, and it’s finally here! What was meant to be a quick oneshot turned into nearly 7.4k of absolute filth! Whoops!
> 
> I implore you to MIND THOSE TAGS, particularly the extremely dubious consent and self-degradation!!! I think I caught everything, but please let me know if I missed something and I will gladly add it.
> 
> Innumerable thanks to [arroways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arroways/pseuds/arroways) for both the beta and the moodboard. You are a true icon.
> 
> As always, guilt-free fic consumption :)

Rey is living in the last holdout on her block, the only building that hasn’t been bought up and torn down to make way for more ridiculously expensive apartments and condos. 

Every night she peers out her window into the building across the way. Some fancy asshole lives there, with dark decor that she’s sure he hired someone to put together, all vast emptiness, too big for one person, especially considering he’s never around. 

He must travel for his job, rarely there for more than a couple days at a time before his next long absence. She’s just making use of what he’s ignoring, she reasons, when she starts breaking in. All that money must clog his brain, because his windows are never locked, making it almost too easy for her to climb up the fire escape and enter his “man cave,” as she’s started calling it. 

Can she really be faulted for wanting a taste of luxury? To know what it’s like to stand beneath hot water with just enough pressure to soothe her perpetually sore muscles? To stretch out on a bed big enough for two? No, she tells herself, it’s only right. She deserves it.

But she gets too comfortable. Stops diligently counting his absent days. Starts taking a few sips from his liquor cabinet. Starts sleeping in her underwear in his bed, shoving her hand between her legs for a semblance of relief from being clouded in his masculine scent.

————

One day, Ben comes home early.

A naked back peeks out from beneath his sheets, so toned and tan.

A pert ass covered in lace, exposed in sleep.

He’s never seen such a lovely criminal...

————

Consciousness comes slowly, awareness creeping in when she feels a gentle pressure at her ankle. She takes stock of her position as she wakes, starfished on her stomach in a strange man’s bed, eons more content than the nights she spends in her own apartment, nights uncloaked by his extravagance. 

When the pressure grows, she remembers she went to bed alone. Adrenaline floods her veins, heart suddenly pounding out a rhythm all too fast for her lack of wakefulness, barely enough strength to flip over and crowd her arms over her chest, peering through the low lamplight into eyes she’s only glimpsed from a building away. She barely manages to hold his gaze for a moment before breaking away.

She does not yelp.

She does not run.

She simply pulls her ankle from his grasp, tightens her arms further over her chest, and asks the obvious.

“Are you gonna call the cops?” Rey whispers, all attempt to keep fear from her voice unfairly overtaken by the defenselessness of sleep, the vestiges of which are being slowly eradicated by the uptick in her heartbeat.

“No sweetheart, I’m not,” he whispers.

Sweetheart.

It sounds nearly sinister, tinged with awe. His voice awakens something deep within as he begins trailing a hand up her bare leg, cold of his watch raising gooseflesh on her skin—at least, she tells herself it’s the watch, not the teasing touch of a man after so long depriving herself of the feel of another.

“Oh,” she whispers, unable to hold back the soft exclamation as his hand continues climbing, all the way up her calf until his thumb pauses to brush her knee. 

She trembles. 

Wetness coats lace. 

Maybe that should bother her.

He has all the power here. She’s the one who broke into his apartment, who drank his booze, who inhabited his bed. He could do anything to her. 

It occurs to her that she just might let him. 

He smells even better than his sheets or his shower gel, scent a hundred times more delicious when it’s from the man himself. Her glimpses from across the way hadn’t done him justice—she thought she’d been imagining just how _big_ he was.

It wasn’t her imagination. He’s huge and menacing and _hungry_ looking, all allure in sharp features and dark eyes made to devour, piercing even through the low light. His touch is teasing, but not tentative. It’s clear this is not a man who asks for things. This is a man who _takes._

This has to be the strangest thing to ever happen to her. She should be terrified, and yet…

“I think I’m going to have to teach you a lesson, though,” he whispers, voice like velvet as his grip tightens, now dwarfing her thigh beneath his hand.

She should’ve guessed it would go this way. Everything she’s been able to glean in her weeks of investigation has revealed a man that is the poster child for perfection, all clean lines and not a speck of dust out of place and absolute, complete control. She’s felt more than a small thrill each time she’s gotten off in his bed, wetness spread in her underwear and all over her fingers and dripping onto his stupidly fancy expensive sheets, wondering if he would get a chance to smell her before his weekly cleaning crew visit.

It’s this thought that emboldens her just enough to return his stare, removing her arms from the protective stance she’s taken to cover her chest. She watches his eyes darken at the reveal of her breasts, nipples tight in the wake of the cool air and his ministrations. 

“I suppose it’s only fair,” she whispers back. Rey has no idea where this is coming from, only that she is ready to throw herself at his feet and beg for mercy. She’s not sure if she’d rather him give it to her or not.

He’s surprised by acquiescence, she sees, a hitch in his breath the first hint of anything less than stoic. His hand continues its climb upward, slowly, higher, higher, until his thumb is nearly at the crotch of her underwear.

But he does not touch.

Instead, before she can think to protest, he reaches for her arms, yanking her forward until she gracelessly falls across his lap. She wriggles instinctively, trying to get away, but she can’t, even if she really wanted to. He’s huge and strong, and he pins her down with an arm at her back and another across her thighs. She was trembling before, as his hand traced searing lines of heat up her leg, but this? It’s a full-body shake, uncontrollable as he traps her against his thighs, her elbows and knees pressed into the mattress beneath them.

Bravado is gone.

“Shhh,” he soothes, “it’ll be okay, dear.” He moves the hand at her back to stroke the naked flesh between her shoulders, over and over, each pass getting closer to the heightened globes of her ass. He’s practically petting her, soothing a frightened little thing.

Despite knowing how wrong this is, how she should be fighting harder to get away, she won’t. She _can’t._

His touch soothes a deep-seated ache that’s long gone ignored.

Under his hand, she rejects the last of her mental blocks against desire, and releases herself from shame.

Her trembling ceases.

“Good girl,” he praises, unbuttoning his sleeves to roll his dress shirt to his elbows before resuming his tender touch. Rey can no longer ignore how wet she is already, from barely an inkling of sensation. Lace only covered half of her bottom before, and even more flesh is exposed after his manhandling forces the fabric further up between her cheeks.

She barely gets a moment to adjust to this new reality before the hand on her back stills, and the arm that once trapped her thighs lifts to allow a crack against her ass that pierces the quiet stillness they’d so carefully cultivated. 

This time, she yelps. 

This is nothing like the times she’s convinced flings and boyfriends and girlfriends to give her ass a playful swat. He spanks her with every bit of force that his form implies, and it’s fucking _fire_ in her veins, she can finally _feel something—_

The second hit is just as hard, matching cheeks under his hand. She feels the blooming redness beneath the skin, and this yelp tapers off into a choked sound, half moan, half sob, entirely unfamiliar to her own ears.

Nothing has ever felt so _much._

Her body wants it again, over and over, sweet heat torn from her skin—but he needn’t know that. She couldn’t actually _admit_ that she wanted this, _needed_ this, pleasure ripped from her body by a mysterious stranger.

Maybe she did want it.

But he certainly wasn’t asking. 

“How many nights have you spent here?”

He’s still calm, collected, not a hint that this may be affecting him—that is, until she shifts just right, her abdomen brushing against his crotch, heavy half hardness beneath tailored slacks. He inhales again, a little noise, the barest hint of a break in composure as she shifts again.

He pins her back down instantly, sensing her game.

“I said,” he continues, and his voice is closer now, menace dripping in her ear, “how many nights have you made yourself at home in my bed like a fucking _slut?”_

His last word is enunciated by a yank at her hair, his fingers threaded at the nape of her neck to pull her head back, baring her to his hungry gaze. Her vision is swimming, fear and lust colliding in a haze centered at her cunt, which she realizes is likely making a puddle on his slacks, panties soaked long ago _—stupid fucking slacks, probably cost more than my rent—_

He yanks again, hard enough that her torso moves back, nipples skating against his leg and _god fucking damn it_ she was ready to set those slacks on fire for how much they were exposing her, pooled wetness surely permeating and the drag against her sensitive chest pulling forth a moan.

“I—I don’t knOW—” and he yanks again, this time most certainly directing her chest against him, ripples of sensation forcing her to rock her hips down, too far gone with want to remember bashfulness.

“Take a guess,” he growls, that _fucking_ voice urging her to keep rocking, keep chasing relief pinned against his lap despite the iron grip in her hair, keeping her so anchored that she can barely shift an inch, too much and not enough as fabric grazes skin.

“M-maybe seven or—or eight, I can’t—” she can’t think, can hardly breathe, tension coiled as she chases something so far out of reach, she wonders if she’ll get it at all.

“God, you are a slut, aren’t you?”

She blushes at the admonishment. 

He must be right. 

She realizes with a shameful pang that she wants to hear it over and over, wants him to crack her open, wants to expose herself to him in every way. He’s dark, dangerous, and it only spurns her on in her desperation. It should frighten her. It _does_ frighten her, but fright is a warmth that culminates in collected wetness. 

She can feel the blush spread from her cheeks down to her chest—not that he can tell, as he takes the opportunity to shove her head back down into the mattress, precious inches of wiggle room lost.

“Let’s say eight, then, just to be safe,” he continues, “which means you have six left.”

_Six left? What the fuck was he—_

He spanks her again, this one across both cheeks, and it hits her like lightning as she jolts against him. 

She’s got five more of these to take.

But she’s never backed down from a challenge.

When the next one cracks down on the same spot as the first, she almost hisses. It’s a deliciously sharp sting, one that lingers, tingling nerves and spread sensation. He quickly mirrors it on the other cheek, and wetness drips, cunt and eyes weeping.

The next hit lands at the sensitive patch where ass meets thigh, and she practically jumps out of her skin at the feeling. Overcome, she shoves herself against his lap, chasing any amount of pressure to counteract the strength in his hands, something to match up, to convince herself that _no, the pain wasn’t what was getting her close to the edge, no, that would be ludicrous, she is simply withstanding—_

He mimics the hit on her other side.

Her wail is inhuman as it shatters her reserve. She’s never known such delicious agony, never dreamed that sex could feel like this.

And he hasn’t even taken her panties off yet.

She realizes, semi-consciously as her body absorbs three more blows, that she _hopes_ that this is sex, she _hopes_ he strips her bare, she _hopes_ that this brazen man doesn’t open her up to a new world of want and then force her into the night, dripping down her thighs without release.

His hand comes down again, but with no force this time. Instead, the touch is soothing, a slight stinging pinch making way for warmth and comfort as he rubs his reddened creation.

“You took that so beautifully, my dear.”

She is still spilled across his lap as the endearment passes over his lips. _My dear._

_My._

_Mine._

She is his, she realizes. His to do with as he pleases, lest she end up with a far worse punishment. The thought doesn’t bother her as much as she would’ve thought, before this, before _him,_ before she realized what thoughtful attention could feel like, stinging red, thrumming in her veins, soaking her panties until they overflowed without a single touch.

When he pulls her up by the back of the neck, she doesn’t protest, just follows his guiding motions until she is propped up against the headboard, flushed chest once again bared. She can both feel and see the slight burn against her breasts from the wool of his slacks, from her uncontrolled writhing in his lap as he showed her decadence previously unknown.

For a moment, neither of them speak. His face holds a peculiar expression, one she’s never seen pointed in her direction. It’s a thin veil covering awe, she thinks, if such a thing were possible. Like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. For just a moment, _she_ could see.

And in an instant, that perception vanishes. He cocks his head ever so slightly to the side, and his gaze shifts to a point just above her head.

All at once, her memories of previous trips return. Every drawer she opened, every room explored, every piece of furniture inspected for its fine craftsmanship.

She remembers wondering what type of man has restraints installed in his headboard. 

“If you’re so desperate to be here, I think I should make sure you’re going to stay.”

He shuffles up the bed between unconsciously parted legs, and a flicker of pleasure crosses his features when she instinctively begins to lift her arms.

“You know,” he begins conversationally, like he hasn’t just spanked her within an inch of her life and left her desperate for more, “I started noticing things around here the past few weeks.” Her first wrist is bound, range of motion severely limited as she scoots further up the headboard. “My soaps moved in the bathroom. A yogurt missing from the fridge. A few sips out of my decanters…”

_Fuck._ He’s more observant than she thought. She realizes this as he binds her other wrist, and now she is at his mercy, bare chest rising and falling rapidly, soaked lace still clinging to her center.

“I thought maybe it was a member of my staff,” he continues, now tracing a single finger down the center of her chest. Her skin pebbles. She arches into the touch. There’s no chance of controlling her movements now, not with her arms restricted. It’s as if the rest of her body is no longer under her command now that she’s bound. 

“But then I started to notice the most peculiar thing about my bed.” 

She _likes_ this, his teasing, his darkness, his admonishment. It would be a startling revelation if she had time or brainpower for such things, but all she can think is _touch me touch me touch me._ Her body speaks for her when he suddenly pinches a nipple between his fingers. She absolutely keens for it, shoving her hips into the air in a desperate bid for friction. It’s like she hardly knows herself anymore, completely blindsided by what her body could do, what her body wanted, in the intoxicating presence of danger.

He is unaffected, monologue continuing as he repeats his ministrations on her other breast.

“My bed started to smell like a woman had been here. Like she’d made herself at home.”

And now his hand grips her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. She finds darkness, want, an intensity that should frighten but that only makes her wetter, an inquisitive desperation nearly masked by control—but only nearly.

“Like she’d rubbed her needy cunt all over my sheets.”

She whimpers as his grip holds her steady and his other hand travels downward to finally, _finally,_ rip her underwear down her legs, leaving her bare.

When he removes his hands, she unsuccessfully tries to reach for him. She can’t help but fight against the bindings. It’s instinct, unavoidable, and a part of her knows that he wants to see her struggle.

She obliges.

He travels down her body and shoves her thighs apart, baring every bit of her to his gaze before lowering his head until he hovers just above her mound—and inhales through his nose. She’s embarrassed, humiliated, more turned on than she’s ever been in her life by the man treating her like a unique vintage, noting the aroma before the taste.

“This is most certainly that cunt.”

He licks her without warning, a single stroke from her entrance to her clit. Just a taste.

She places every bit of strength into a single thrust of her hips toward his mouth. She’s rewarded with a spank instead, on the very flesh that was desperate for his tongue. The sharp sound of his wet slap reverberates through the apartment—as does her scream. The noise is ripped from her by his hand, his glorious hand, opening her up to worlds left entirely unexplored. The sting lingers longer than the feeling of his tongue and she can’t decide which one she wants more.

“You like making a mess, don’t you?”

She nods desperately, no one witness to her shame but the two of them. She just wants him to touch her again, any way he wants, any way he could possibly think of.

He seems to have other plans.

When he grabs her by the waist, she can’t help a yelp of surprise—there’s just enough slack in the restraints that he can flip her over. She catches herself with her knees pressed into the mattress, head held low as her wrists make an X above her. 

“I think you should show me.”

“What?” Her tongue is heavy in her mouth, nearly as heavy as the arousal in her gut.

“You should show me how you’ve been making a mess of my sheets with that slutty little cunt.”

His mouth unlocks a new world inside her as he continues to drip filth in her ear, embarrassment a revelation as it pours from between her legs. 

His arm appears in her view, grabbing a pillow from the top of the bed and forcing it between her knees. When his hands clasp around her hips from behind, she’s struck with a desire for him to press harder, deeper, to leave marks that she can trace for days as she replays this night over and over with her own fingers buried deep. Instead, he shoves downward, until her frankly soaked center is pressed directly against silk. 

Hands still on her waist, he starts to guide her, just barely, to rock against the pillow. The friction is frustration inducing, a reminder of what eludes her.

“Go on then,” he whispers, removing his hands once she’s taken over the movements of her hips, the promise of sensation impossible to resist, even if she knows it won’t be enough. 

She shudders as she rocks. “I—I can’t, I need—” 

She pulls at the restraints nearly subconsciously, desperate to rub her clit, to stretch herself out—

“Whores don’t get to use their hands.”

Further wetness seeps into the pillowcase.

“Are you a whore, sweetheart?”

Her hips still, wet fabric clinging to her as she absorbs his words. He’s testing her, that much is clear. The question is whether she wants to pass.

She turns the words he’s used over in her mind.

Whore. 

Needy.

Slut.

She imagines how they’d feel on her tongue. Debased, humiliating, dirty, wrong, and she wants it all, wants to feel the shame wrapped around her, inside her, reduced to nothing but a puddle of desire.

“Yes, I am,” she whispers as she resumes the grind of her hips.

“You’re what?” he goads, voice far closer as his body heat sinks into her from behind, not touching, just a hint of broadness and warmth at her back.

“I’m a who-whore,” she chokes, tears welling at the corners of her eyes that she didn’t recognize until they’d clouded her vision with wanton shame, smeared decadence on her tongue as she laps at the salt.

“That’s right. Now show me what whores do in my bed.”

And so she does.

Gripping the restraints in her palms for added leverage, she resumes her efforts against the pillow, doing her best to ruin the fabric with her smearing wetness. She grinds, pushes, _seethes_ when it’s still not enough, not even when she manages to tuck a foot underneath, heel pressing against her entrance through the plush softness. She writhes and moans and drips and cries and she _just can’t get there._

“Pl-please,” she gasps as her peak remains elusive. “Please, I need—”

“You need?” he asks with a smirk she can’t see. “I know sweetheart. So fucking needy for me before I even got here, hm?”

She nods, still moving her hips in a plea.

“Do you think you deserve it?”

“No, I don’t, I don’t deserve it—” 

She’s crying outwardly now, voice cracking as she kicks her legs out from under her, trying to find him, feel him, bring him toward her to soothe the ache that he’s built inside of her.

“That’s right,” and he finally wraps himself around her, one hand draped across her chest as he presses into her back, the other at her waist, pulling her up and away from the ruined pillow, re-righting her legs beneath her until they’re both kneeling on the mattress, his legs between hers.

“Sluts don’t deserve to come, but you just look so good, sweetheart. I can’t help myself.”

In one moment, she’s empty, and the next, he’s two fingers deep with one hand pressed against the sides of her throat. It’s absolute fucking bliss.

“What do you say?” he growls, and somehow she knows exactly what he’s looking for as he pulls his fingers back.

“Thank-oh fuck,” she stutters as he thrusts back in and tightens his grip on her neck at the same time. “Thank you.”

“Good girl.”

His fingers are so long she can practically feel them in her throat. The stretch is exquisite after so long spent just teasing, and she relishes in it, pushing back against the intrusion as her mind floats with a slight lack of blood flow. Clearly both hands know what they’re doing as he seems to effortlessly drive her absolutely wild. Her breaths become a mantra at this strange man enveloping her from the inside out, _thank you thank you thank you_ the closest thing to a prayer to ever pass her lips.

She feels something build, something she’s only ever achieved once or twice with sheer dumb luck, something that he seems to be pulling from her effortlessly as his fingers crook deep inside of her, an unrelenting pressure against _something_ that’s making her tremble. Her abs tighten with a feeling that’s just barely familiar but he feels so otherworldly inside of her she can’t control the spill of sounds from her mouth, whimpers and sighs and _please_ and _right there_ and _I don’t I can’t what’s happening I’m—_

The hand at her throat moves down to her clit, rough circles drawn in time with his magic fingers until she’s euphoric, in ecstasy, coming harder than she can ever remember coming—and absolutely soaking the pillow with a gush of wetness she can’t control. He keeps _thrusting_ and _circling_ and her legs give out with the force of it as he draws out more wetness. She’s sliding down against silk, her entire body pulling against the restraints at her wrists with a force found only in complete bonelessness. 

Her wrists barely have time to start hurting before he pulls his fingers out of her, flipping her back over to face him, her body landing unceremoniously next to the absolutely saturated pillow. She can’t look at him, can hardly breathe through the intensity, the humiliation of what she’s done—but it’s his own damn fault for playing her cunt like a violin. Right?

She hardly registers him rearranging her until she’s propped much more comfortably against the headboard, wrists under less strain as he scoots her back, tucking her heels nearly to her thighs to spread her open. 

She still can’t look at him—not until he grips her chin with the hand that was inside of her and pushes two wet fingers past her lips.

Shame and lust collide as she starts to suck on them without hesitation, meeting his eyes. 

“Look what a mess you made, filthy thing,” he whispers, nearly reverent as he forces her head to the side to look at the soaked pillow, his hand anchored in her mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles around fingers that taste like her. 

Is she really?

“It’s ok, sweetheart, you couldn’t control yourself.” His other hand comes between her bent legs and pets the seam of her with his thumb, a soothing gesture were it anywhere but where she was dripping and hot for him. “Just like I can’t.”

She shudders at his touch, almost unbearably sensitive after the most exquisite orgasm of her life.

His fingers remain in her mouth, and she pulls them deeper down her throat with a moan as he replaces the thumb at her clit with his tongue, lapping up every drop of her arousal like he can’t stand the thought of it going to waste. 

She can hardly focus with the pleasure coursing through her—oral has never felt like this. And yet, her pleasure is inconsequential; he licks and sucks at her like cunt is his favorite snack. When his fingers withdraw from her mouth, she can’t help but whimper at the loss, and it turns into a whine when he lifts his face away from her too.

“Shhh, it’s okay dear,” he whispers, soothing with a pet to her inner thigh. “I just want to see how much of a mess you can make.”

When two fingers breach her entrance once again, she sobs with relief, even more so when he focuses his licks directly on her clit. She feels herself building again, welcoming the stretch of his fingers, the infuriating way he seems to know her body better than she knows herself.

“More?” It’s whispered into her folds, breath and vibration making her clench around the digits inside her. She can hardly think, can hardly _breathe_ through the all-consuming sensation, but has just enough wherewithal to nod _yes._ More could mean anything in this moment and the answer would be yes.

She feels his smile against her, can see the wet corners of his lips turn up between her legs, the rest of his mouth hidden by her mound. 

He withdraws his fingers, only to work back into her with three—three obscenely large fingers that have her stretching in the absolute _best_ way, straining around the digits, unsure if the clench is due to the sheer width, or her desperate tightening to keep him inside of her.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispers, his other hand moving to her clit as he starts to thrust. “Take it. Fucking _take it._ ”

And she does, gasping and writhing through it, wrists pulling against the restraints as she thrashes in his bed. It’s almost unbelievable how quickly she feels another peak start to build, panic rising as she realizes that this one feels like the one before.

The one that soaked his pillow.

When he bends back down to lick at where his fingers are stretching her entrance, she panics, knowing what’s coming, an impossibility—this has _never_ happened twice, and he’s pulling it from her effortlessly. But his face is _right there_ and she’s never felt such burgeoning pleasure and she knows she’s not going to be able to stop herself if he keeps going and it’s fucking embarrassing but she wants him to stop and not stop all at once. She wants him to _ruin_ her. 

Maybe he already has.

She has just enough energy to stutter out a plea, a small semblance of hope, clinging to dignity as she cries out, “wait, no, please, I’m gonna—”

He pauses his motions at her clit, pulls his tongue out from between her entrance and his fingers, just long enough to croon, “Let go.”

Then his efforts redouble.

He curls his fingers toward her front wall, continues to lick at the stretched hole of her entrance, and rubs her clit between two fingers until her entire body is shuddering. Somehow he’s holding her nearly in place, though she feels like she could fling herself off of the bed with the force of the tremors running through her; he absorbs it all with a strength she has barely begun to consider, leaving nowhere for her to go but out.

A gush covers his lips, his cheeks, his wrist as he brings her to yet another peak colored by a splash of shame. He milks her cunt for all it’s worth, adding to the mess on their bodies and his sheets and she cries—from sensation, from exhilaration, from bliss.

She shuts her eyes as he removes himself from the altar of her cunt. She can’t bear to look at him, to look at the enigma covered in her own release.

“I—I’m sorry, I tried—” _to warn you,_ she thinks, but she’s cut off by the press of something cool and hard against her mouth.

“Clean me up and I’ll forgive you, my dear.”

She opens her eyes to a startling sight. He’s caging her in, disheveled, staring at the metal and glass of his watch, drops of liquid covering the face and band as it presses her lips in an obscene stretch.

She should say no. She should curse at him, should scream until her throat goes hoarse at his presumption that he could ask such a thing.

And yet.

And _yet._

She licks her own shame off six thousand dollars.

And replaces it with more between her legs that she prays he will find.

“Good girl, such a sweet thing you are.”

She hates it. It’s _so fucking good_ she hates it, she hates that she’ll never know the world again without this, this strange, deep humiliation that makes her want to please, makes her want to beg, makes her want and want and want. The salt streaming down her cheeks tastes nearly as sweet as her own release from his wrist.

She surprises herself as she traces the varied textures with her tongue; her tears flow freely now, liberating, almost as good as another orgasm. She steals swipes of his skin between licks, craving contact, craving more, craving whatever he could fathom that would keep her suspended in this universe they’ve created, a paradoxical exploration of depravity and exaltation. 

Her arms carry a deep ache from their position above her head, far more satisfying than any soreness she’s ever felt. Her legs slide against silk, smooth because of his shower, his razor, his shave gel that she borrowed before burrowing into his bed, unknowingly entering a dream come to life. 

She’s been leaving pieces of herself for him to find—her hair in his bathroom, her saliva on the rim of his crystal decanter, her dripping arousal on his sheets. She remembers her boldness, and she clings to it in her rediscovery, determined to enjoy this for all it’s worth. 

“Please,” she whispers, tears ceased in the name of seduction.

His eyes darken impossibly further, intrigue coloring his expression.

“Please what, sweetheart?”

It was never going to be easy, was it?

“Please,” she chokes out, catching her breath, “fuck me.” 

The heat at her cheeks is now permanent as he surveys her body, breasts already reddened and heaving, cunt swollen and thighs slick.

“You want me to fuck you, hm? Want me to fuck the little slut that helped herself to my bed?” He pauses, calculating. “Aren’t you just a spoiled brat?” 

His words are accompanied by another spank to her folds, and she nearly starts crying again. Were it not for the staunch need to defend the last bit of pride she had left, she would have.

“‘M not a spoiled _brat,”_ she bites back, tone slightly softened by the whine preceding it, every nerve ending seemingly centered at wherever his hand meets her body.

He gives her another once over, looking lost in thought for a moment before he suddenly sits up and reaches for the bedside table, opening the drawer to retrieve a gold wrapper.

She’s so transfixed by his movements, she thinks she imagines the soft whisper that escapes him.

“But you could be.”

The moment is over before it begins, everything centered on his still-damp hands dragging the zipper down on his slacks. Rey belatedly realizes how much he’s been holding back. She’d felt him stiffen when he spanked her, a lifetime ago, and his cock springs free almost violently with how hard it is.

She can’t hide her groan at the sight. If she wasn’t ruined before, she certainly is now. He’s both thick and long, and she knows he’s going to his just the right spot inside of her, and she will embarrass herself once more.

The rest of his clothes stay on, a hint of forearm and collarbone all she gets besides cock. She can’t find it in her to mind, as long as she’s about to get fucked.

But yet again, he has other plans.

He flips her back over, restraints crossed as he bares her reddened ass again. She yelps at the sudden movement, whimpers as he pushes her legs apart with his knee in order to land one more perfectly placed spank against her cunt, this one catching her clit. He rests his hand there for a moment, taking stock of just how much wetness has collected in the break between orgasms.

“I can’t believe I almost gagged you,” he whispers as he leans back over her body, invading her senses and space with menacing warmth. “You make the loveliest sounds.”

And Rey finds her resolve, chancing a quick glance over her shoulder before she quips, “I’ll make more if you fuck me.”

She hears the rip of the condom, the slide down his shaft, and she could cry with relief if she had any tears left.

At the first rub of his head against her entrance, she finds enough room for a dry sob.

But he doesn’t push inside of her. He just drags the head through her messy folds, spreading her wetness without ever pressing where she needs him most.

He places one hand on her hip, and the anchor lets him apply more teasing pressure.

“I had no idea I was in for such a treat today, you know.”

How he can sound so casual while sporting the absolute hardest hard-on she’s ever felt is beyond her. She feels like she’s going to combust, movements and words colliding in a haze of deeper desperation than she knew possible. 

“Little whimpering mess of a cocksleeve just turns up in my bed. Is that what you are? Hmm?”

“Yes, fuck, yes,” and she’s ready to say anything at this point. “I’m your cocksleeve,” she lets out another dry sob, “I’m a slut, I’m a whore, just _fuck me already!”_ Her voice breaks.

“Please.”

It’s useless to pretend that any of what she’s said is just an act.

She hears him chuckle as she yanks on the restraints with enough force that the headboard bends. A _chuckle_ while she’s ready to absolutely _lose her fucking mind._

“If you want it so badly, you can do it yourself.” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” She bites, too far gone to keep the edge out of her tone, needing a cock inside of her _yesterday._

“If you want to get fucked, _do—it—yourself._ ” Each word is punctuated with a smack of his length against her, sharp bursts of pressure against her clit that explode behind her eyes. She finds more tears.

She feels him lean away, until their only point of contact is the head of his cock resting against her entrance, not yet breaching.

“Go on, _slut_.”

She never thought _slut_ could sound beautiful before.

When she presses her hips back, it’s everything she could want—it’s nearly too fast, the stretch accompanied by a slight burn that only adds to her arousal. She’s well used to the blurry line between pleasure and pain after the way his hands have treated her.

She hears him hiss as he bottoms out inside of her, and it feels like victory—this composed man, facade cracking with the force of her cunt.

Instead of allowing the pull of the restraints, she moves slightly forward, confident that he will follow. She grabs the headboard for leverage to push back against him, and starts to fuck herself on his cock in earnest.

She’s never heard sounds so debased, her arousal providing an obscene squelch on every thrust. She holds back nothing now, moans and cries as she uses him for her pleasure, just as she’s used his apartment. _It’s poetic,_ she thinks, as she marks one more part of him with herself.

But all control has a breaking point.

And eventually, Ben reaches his.

When he grabs her hips and takes over, he is a man consumed. It’s as if her cunt has stolen his resolve, and he expertly fucks into her over and over again, hitting something deep within that she’s never been able to reach alone.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re like a fucking dream come true. Perfect little whore.” He’s almost talking to himself as he fucks her, and she lives up to her designation of cocksleeve.

Nothing else will ever compare, and he doesn’t even know her name.

But with a whimper and a plea, they realize she knows his.

“Please, please, please Ben I—”

He stops, instantly. His hand reaches under her to wrap around her throat, squeezing as he did when he first made her gush all over his pillow.

“What did you just say?”

He slowly drags his cock out of her. She feels every ridge, every vein as it traces her walls until just the tip remains, keeping her entrance stretched.

She can barely hold the headboard anymore, strength gone from her arms.

“Please, Ben.”

“How do you know my name?”

She has just enough breath to exhale from her nose in a mimic of a laugh, and it seems her sass hasn’t been entirely fucked out of her yet. “Are you kidding? Everything in this place is fucking monogrammed. The frame for your degree is probably worth more than everything I own—”

She’s cut off as his hips slam back into her sore ass.

It’s strange, realizing you miss something that you had mere moments ago. The stretch is just as good as she remembers. It’s been too long.

“It sounds lovely in your mouth, sweetheart.” The hand at her neck moves to her wrists, loosening the bindings until she’s free. Her chest immediately collapses on the mattress, elbows bent by her head, hips still in the air, impaled by his cock.

“Do I get to know yours?”

She clings to the last shred of mystery she has and shakes her head.

“That’s all right. Just say mine again.”

He pulls back out for a quick thrust, and it’s torn from her.

“Fuck, Ben, yes.”

“Again.”

Another thrust.

“Be-Ben,” she stutters.

“Again.”

“Please, Ben, please, I need—”

“I know what you _fucking_ need, sweetheart.”

There’s no restraint left in either of them now. He uses her and she takes it and she loves it and her throat is just there for begging and whispers of reverence for a man possessed.

She’s on the precipice again, can feel it building, something just out of reach, were it not for the fact that he’d unbound her hands.

She doesn’t think he’ll notice her sneaking toward her clit.

She’s underestimated him.

Her hips feel cold when he removes his hands in favor of pinning her wrists to the mattress.

“No,” he snarls, and she cries, and he keeps fucking her like she’s never been fucked before.

“I think you wanted me to find you,” he teases, now alternating with a slow drag in and out of her before a few faster, harder thrusts. It’s torture, and he knows it.

He lets go of her wrists to resume his firm grip on her hips, and slowly begins inching inward with one hand. Long, slow thrust. Several hard thrusts. Another inch toward her clit. 

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” More torture. Ceaseless. Endless. Helpless. “Say it and I’ll let you come.”

It’s music to her ears, the key to her release. More importantly, she realizes, it’s the truth.

“Yes, Ben, fuck,” a deep thrust, “I was just—” he rests two fingers against her clit, “waiting for you to, fuuu—” he starts fucking her again, and she knows this is the end, “—come fuck me.”

He starts circling her clit, and she’s a goner. 

It’s the longest orgasm of her life, wrung out of her by expert hands. It just keeps going as he fucks her, persistent inside and out, working in tandem to sufficiently lay waste to her cunt and her psyche. She faintly registers a final, small gush of fluid that coats his cock, further easing his descent into her until he falls over the edge. Her orgasm brackets his, bookends to his release, and she loses track of the number of times she says his name.

Their panting fills the air, and consciousness eludes her. She faintly registers him pulling out, and a pitiful whine that sounds suspiciously like her floats through the air.

It could be minutes or hours later when she feels him scoop her up with strong, naked arms, pressing her against a warm, solid chest. They’re moving, and then she’s sat on a toilet seat and hears, “I’ll be right back.”

She barely has the strength to stand after she uses it, managing to wash her hands before deciding that the floor would make a very nice place to lie down.

She doesn’t get to enjoy the cool tile for long, as those same arms wrap around her again and walk her back to the bed.

It looks different.

Sheets.

Clean sheets.

He puts her down and wraps her up, first in silk, then his body, and everything feels light and free as she falls back into unconsciousness.

————

When Rey wakes up, it feels familiar enough. She’s slept here quite a few times and always feels refreshed, limbs renewed after a night on a supportive mattress.

The ache in her wrists and between her legs was less familiar.

Ben. 

_Ben._

It all rushes back to her, and practically feels like a dream.

She’s almost convinced herself it was one, until she looks to the nightstand.

There’s a hot cup of coffee in a paper to-go cup, a freshly toasted bagel, and next to it, a note on custom stationary, written in gorgeous script.

**Author's Note:**

> Image embedded at the end of the text reads:  
> “I’ll leave the window open, Rey. Come back soon.” [“Rey” is written larger than other words]
> 
> Image drawn by the incomparable [tofü](https://twitter.com/spicytofuuuu?s=21)/[tofü](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicytofuuuu/works)! The Reylo fandom is one of infinite talents, and I’m thrilled to be able to incorporate her calligraphy!
> 
> [Halle](https://twitter.com/reylographer/status/1310646289743347714?s=21) drew a gorgeous illustration of the opening scene! Please check it out!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Let me know your thoughts in the comments and/or on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/beccastanz)!


End file.
